“Bernie,” she called after him quietly.

  He turned back, hoping his red face wasn’t too obvious. “Yes?”

  “I – I, you know, this room …”

  “Yes?”

  “I – I’m frightened. I don’t want to spend another night in there.”

  “But you said it was all right last night.”

  Celia touched his sleeve. “I know – but, well, I’m still scared. C-can I stay in your room tonight?”

  It dawned on him that this woman had more than a passing interest in him. It had taken a long time for this message to get home, but it now permeated even his dull brain. She wasn’t that scared of staying in the room on her own. She had done so last night without any ill effects. It was just a ploy, he was sure of it. But, on the other hand, could he really say no?

  Celia snuggled down in Bernard’s bed and smiled to herself. One step nearer, she thought. Bernard tried to get comfortable on the couch. There was a broken spring sticking up into his back, and he felt like he was sleeping on a couple of sacks of coal. “Women!” he thought crossly, as he vainly sought sleep.

  September 1957: Blackpool

  The next day, the Sunnyside guests were still without their landlady. Ivy had not been seen for several days, and now there was no sign of June Smart either. Bernard entered reception and looked around. Having spent a restless night on that broken down old couch, he was tired and irritable. Where was everybody, he wondered. He had got used to not seeing Ivy at the desk, but June was usually there in her place. He looked forward to seeing her friendly, pretty face every morning which, he had to admit, was much nicer than Ivy’s.

  He went up to the desk and rang the bell. No response. He only wanted to hand in his key, prior to going over to the Imperial to see Nigel. Oh well, he thought, putting it in his pocket, there wasn’t much he could do if there was no one to take it from him. He walked out of the building, quickly turning his footsteps towards the Imperial. He needed to catch Nigel before he left the hotel for his daily perambulation.

  Bernard had been gone no more than five minutes when a scream echoed from the kitchen. This was followed by more screams. People having breakfast in the dining room came running out.

  Celia, who was on her way down the stairs, wondered what the mass exodus was about. Then she heard the screams too. “What on earth’s going on?” she asked.

  The old colonel and John, who had been breakfasting together, followed the other guests. “Where’s the fire?” asked Matthew, grumpily.

  “The noise is coming from the kitchen,” said John, heading there as fast as his rather heavy legs would let him. Soon everyone was craning their necks to see into the kitchen. They could see the staff standing there, looking horrified. The screams were being made by the youngest waitress. The tray she had been carrying to the dining room was now on the floor, its contents scattered everywhere. There was porridge under everyone’s feet, and fried eggs slipping under the cooking surfaces. Mayhem had broken out.

  “What on earth’s the matter?” asked John Tapperstall, lifting his foot carefully as his shoe came into contact with the porridge. “Have you seen a mouse?”

  The little waitress, Janet, was in tears. “L-look in the l-larder,” she sobbed.

  John looked around. There was a large, walk-in larder to the right of him. Celia was the first to see what Janet and the other staff had already seen. It was the body of a young female who, they soon recognised, belonged to June Smart. She was very dead.

  Bernard entered the Imperial Hotel and demanded to see Nigel Soames as a matter of urgency. There was a bit of a wait while the concierge tracked him down, by first telephoning through to his suite and, when there was no reply, sending a page boy with a message into the breakfast room.

  Nigel finally emerged, followed by Robbie and the curate.

  “Hello, old boy,” said Robbie, “you’re an early bird. We’ve only just finished breakfast.”

  “I came to see you Nigel, especially,” said Bernard, ignoring Robbie. He suspected his friend would try and pump him about Celia at the first opportunity, but he wasn’t going to be distracted by this petty matter. Besides, Robbie wouldn’t thank him when he knew the truth.

  Nigel heaved himself into the chair beside Bernard. “Well, what is it?”

  “You must come and help us,” said Bernard with determination.

  “Help you? How, exactly?”

  “Anbolin says you’re the only one who can.”

  “I am, am I?” Nigel liked to consider himself an authority on most things, so it was only right that this should be the case. At least that was what he fondly thought.

  “Yes, you need to come and stay at Sunnyside tonight.”

  Nigel raised a fat eyebrow. “Stay? At Sunnyside?” That poky little guest house? Not ‘Pygmalion’ likely, he said to himself.

  “Yes. You must find out what these spirits want. Anbolin can’t hear them, but you can. Remember how you helped us last time? She couldn’t hear the ghost, but you could.”

  Nigel remembered very well. He had never been so frightened in all his life. He vowed to himself that he would never again dabble in what he considered the ‘Black Arts’.

  He snorted through his large pug nose. “I think you must have taken leave of your senses, Bernard,” he thundered. “I will never, repeat, never, involve myself in anything of a psychic nature again. Do I make myself clear?”

  Bernard couldn’t deny that the Reverend Nigel Soames had made himself abundantly clear, but he knew he couldn’t give in. He had to help those poor people who still needed answers. It was time. He looked at Robbie. Robbie met his eyes and winked.

  “Come on, old boy,” he said to Nigel. “You’re the one with the gift. We can’t do anything. We’ve all tried. You have been chosen, whether you like it or not. You can’t refuse to help solve these hauntings. There’s a bereaved husband who has never got over his loss. You’d bring so much comfort to him if you could discover the truth.”

  “I don’t know anything about all this,” said Nigel, slightly taken aback by the force of Robbie’s words. “I mean, I’d like to help and all that, but –”

  It was Oliver’s turn now. “No buts, Nigel,” he said. “You must help. Think what a coup it would be for you – to discover what no one else has been able to in all these years.”

  These words had the right effect. Nigel’s ego was gratified by his curate’s words. He could see the headlines now. “Noble Vicar, Without Regard for His Own Safety, Solves a Forty-Year-Old Murder Mystery”. It was a tempting prospect, but he was terrified of the occult. He feared the next time he entered the pulpit God would strike him dead as a heretic.

  “I appreciate the situation, of course,” he said slowly. “But, in all conscience, I can’t – I really can’t.”

  Bernard stood up and looked down on him. The look in his eyes was dangerous. “In all conscience, Nigel, you can – you really can.”

  September 1957: Exeter

  Dorothy Plunkett handed her father the toast rack. Bill Plunkett took the last piece of toast from it. “Is there any more marmalade?” he asked.

  Dorothy took the empty jar from the table and went to the kitchen. There was another jar, she knew. It wasn’t her father’s favourite, the shop had been out of stock, so she had decided to try a new one. But she knew, before she even took the lid of the jar, he wouldn’t like it. He wouldn’t even try it first. He was getting so cantankerous these days.

  As she predicted, he looked askance at the unfamiliar jar with its unfamiliar label. “Don’t like it,” he said crossly.

  “Come on, dad,” she sighed, “you haven’t even tried it yet.”

  “Don’t need to. There’s no chunky bits in it.”

  “Isn’t that better for you? You always say that the bits get under your plate. Anyway, the shop was out of stock of the usual one.”

  Mr Plunkett was ailing, but not very fast. Since the death of his wife, he had been claiming his nearness to death practically every day. But his wife, Dorothy’s dear departed mother, had been dead nearly nine years, and he was still very much alive and, if not exactly kicking, his health was generally as good as a man of his years could expect.

  He spread the marmalade evenly on his toast and gingerly took a small bite.

  “Well?” she said expectantly.

  “Hmm,” he said noncommittally. “I suppose it’s all right, but I prefer the other one. Make sure you get it next time.”

  “Okay, dad, whatever you say,” she said.

  “I see they’ve caught him at last,” he said after a few minutes.

  Dorothy, who was deep in an article about the Queen’s young children in her new magazine delivered that morning along with the daily newspaper, looked up. Her father always read the paper first, taking great pleasure in relaying all the news to her so she never really needed to read it herself. This was another source of chagrin to her, but she never complained. There really was no point.

  “Caught who, dad?” she said, smiling at the picture of the pretty Princess Anne with her blonde bubble-cut hair.

  “The killer, of course. Of those women.”

  She looked up at this. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. She felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She thought of those poor parents who had come to see her after their daughter had been murdered. He had killed at least six women over the last five years, and perhaps even more. The police couldn’t be sure.

  “Are the police sure they’ve got the right man?”

  “Oh yes, according to this, anyway. They say they are positive the man they have in charge was responsible for the death of these women.”

  “Well, that’s very good news. Let’s put the wireless on and see if there’s anything more about it,” she said, getting up.

  The ten o’clock news was just starting as she tuned in. The second item concerned the capture of the Exeter killer. There was an updated bulletin. The man, who was named as Percy Harrison of no fixed abode, had hanged himself in his police cell overnight. He had left a note, confessing to eight murders. All young women and all in the Exeter and surrounding areas.

  Dorothy switched off the wireless and turned to her father. “Exeter is now a safer place for young women live in,” she said, smiling. “It must have come to a point where they were afraid even to go out.”

  Her father passed the paper to her. “Yes,” he said. “I’m as relieved as I expect they are. Here’s the paper.”

  He got up and left the room.

  Dorothy smiled to herself. Her father had never been a demonstrative man, but she knew from his quiet demeanour that he was glad with every fibre of his being that his own lovely daughter was safe too.

  September 1957: Blackpool

  When Bernard returned to the Sunnyside that evening with the reluctant Nigel in tow, all hell had broken loose. There were two police cars outside and the building was cordoned off.

  “What on earth’s going on?” said Nigel, yearning to be back at the Imperial with Robbie and Oliver. He knew, for a fact, that Robbie would take advantage of his absence by commandeering the master suite. He wasn’t looking forward to the smaller confines of the rooms that the Sunnyside had to offer.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Bernard, equally alarmed. “Something must have happened.”

  “Something very serious, by the looks of it,” said Nigel.

  There was a policeman barring their entrance. “We are guests here,” explained Bernard to his impassive face. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m just guarding the premises,” said the policeman. “If you are staying here, you may pass.” He stood aside and allowed Bernard and his huge companion to enter.

  Bernard recognised one of the waiters standing behind the reception desk. “What’s going on? Where’s June?” he asked.

  The waiter looked at him nervously. As he was about to speak, Celia approached Bernard and took his arm. “Come over here, Bernie,” she said softly. “I will explain.”

  Bernard allowed himself to be taken into the lounge, and Nigel followed. This was no hardship for the great man: he would follow the lovely Celia anywhere.

  “It’s been a terrible day, Bernie,” she said, as they all sat down in the deserted lounge. “Everybody has checked out – apart from me, the colonel and John.”

  “Why? Why are the police here?”

  “You must prepare yourself for a shock,” she said gently, looking at Nigel as well as she said this. “June’s been murdered.”

  Bernard’s jaw dropped. “M-murdered? When? How?”

  “The police aren’t sure exactly when, but sometime last night. She was found in the kitchen larder this morning. She’d been stabbed.”

  “Oh my God!” said Bernard, saying a secret prayer. “Poor June! But why would anyone want to kill her?”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she said involuntarily, “you were fond of her, weren’t you?”

  “Of course – wasn’t everyone?”

  “Well, someone wasn’t,” she said grimly. “And I know who.”

  “You do? Have you told the police?”

  “Of course. He’s been arrested already.”

  “Oh – well, that’s good, then. Who is it? One of the guests?”

  “Not exactly, Bernie,” she said, savouring her moment. “It was Ivy’s husband.”

  “So we were right, after all.” Bernard wished he’d told the police of his suspicions about Lennie Conway the moment he knew he was back. June might still be alive if he had done his civic duty. Celia had said he’d more or less confessed to killing those other women, so why hadn’t he acted sooner?

  Celia was telling him the whole story while he was thinking these thoughts. She was obviously lapping it up. The silly woman; she could have prevented this tragedy. He decided he didn’t like her very much at all. She enjoyed being the one to have unmasked the murderer. Only it had been just a little too late for June.

  Bernard suddenly realised that it might also be too late for someone else. Just where was Ivy Conway?

  Celia smiled grimly. “Yes, that is a worry. I explained about her disappearance to the police and they are convinced that something’s happened to her too. They’ve made a thorough search of the premises, but they haven’t found her – dead or alive. But they found some human remains – or they think they are – although they haven’t said so in so many words. You know the police – they play things close to their chests.”

  “Human remains – not Ivy’s?”

  “No – they’re much earlier than that – nearly forty years or so.”

  “You mean – they could be – ”

  “Yes, Meriel Forwood and Mary Elphinstone,” stated Celia.

  Nigel, who had kept a shocked silence all this while, now piped up. “That’s it, then, isn’t it?”

  Bernard, who had completely forgotten Nigel and the reason for his visit to Sunnyside, turned his attention to him. “What’s ‘it’?”

  “No need for me to stay in those rooms, after all. The murderer has been identified. The mystery of the two murdered women is solved now. Surely?”

  Bernard frowned. “We can’t be sure, Nigel.”

  Celia tutted at this. “Of course we can. I know the i’s haven’t been dotted or the t’s crossed, but it makes complete sense. There weren’t any murders here while Conway was away – but before he left there were two, and now he’s back there’s been at least one more murder – and probably two.”

  Nigel agreed with alacrity. “Exactly, Bernard. You must see there’s no need for me to stay now.”

  Bernard could see, on the face of it, that Nigel and Celia were both right, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind. “Still, just to make sure. And as a courtesy to those dead women, I would like you to stay as we planned.”

  As he said this, Colonel Forwood and John Tapperstall appeared from the lounge. They stood there, eagerly awaiting Nigel’s response. Celia had told them about Bernard’s quest to bring Nigel to the Sunnyside in an attempt to communicate with the spirits in their rooms. Even though they, like Celia, thought there was probably no need now that Lennie Conway was in police custody, they still wanted full closure before they left Sunnyside for good.

  Nigel stared at them. “I suppose I can’t get out of it, can I?”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Very well. You seem to leave me no choice. I understand the rooms in question are eight and twelve. Where shall I sleep first?”

  Bernard watched as Nigel was escorted, rather unwillingly, up the stairs to room twelve by John and the colonel.

  Celia touched Bernard’s arm gently. “An awful business,” she said quietly.

  “Yes – awful. We should have taken our suspicions about Conway to the police right away.”

  “I know. I wish we had. Poor June. You know, Anbolin told me that something was wrong with June. She had a premonition just before she left.”

  “Before she left?” Bernard was puzzled. “Isn’t she still here, then?”

  Celia stared at him. “No, she left a couple of days ago. She said you didn’t seem bothered that she was going.”

  “I don’t remember her going,” said Bernard. “That’s a shame. I wanted to say goodbye to her and invite to stay at the vicarage soon.”

  “Well, she said goodbye to you, according to what she told me,” said Celia.

  “I’m sorry to have missed her. My mind must have been on other things.”

  Celia was rather surprised that Bernard seemed so upset about Anbolin. She wondered if he would have been so upset if she had left instead.

  Celia didn’t say anything more. She moved away from him into the lounge. Bernard’s eyes followed her. There was no doubt she was a very beautiful woman, but he still didn’t like her. Everything had gone wrong with this holiday. It was meant to have been a nice rest for himself and Robbie, but it had turned out to be anything but.

 

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